


Frostbite

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Cold Weather, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Huddling For Warmth, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22503868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: “...Are you cold?” Jaskier stirs, bleary cornflower blue eyes attempting to seek out Geralt in the darkness. When had the Witcher snuffed out the fire? Moreover, why did he bother snuffing out the fire when it’s cold as a--“Geralt, I can see my own breath. Yes, I am cold.” Jaskier’s buried beneath every blanket and fur in their possession, and he’s still having trouble feeling the tips of his fingers. He’s not sure that he fell asleep so much as passed out, and that’s… more than a bit worrisome.“Hmm…” Geralt rises--the bastard has the nerve to be parading about in his smallclothes without a care, entirely unaffected by the bitterly cold winter weather--and makes his way over to the saddlebag to retrieve… is that what he thinks it is? It is. “Put this on. It’ll keep your torso warm, at least.”Dark splotches of color, which have absolutely nothing to do with the weather, stain the bard’s cheeks. “B-But that… that’s yours.” Is Geralt truly offering to let the bard wear his clothing? Because that… that…AKAJaskier wears his Witcher's clothing and feelings are had.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 1110
Collections: GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY





	Frostbite

“...Are you cold?” Jaskier stirs, bleary cornflower blue eyes attempting to seek out Geralt in the darkness. When had the Witcher snuffed out the fire? Moreover,  _ why _ did he bother snuffing out the fire when it’s cold as a--

“Geralt, I can see my own breath. Yes, I am cold.” Jaskier’s buried beneath every blanket and fur in their possession, and he’s  _ still _ having trouble feeling the tips of his fingers. He’s not sure that he  _ fell asleep _ so much as  _ passed out _ , and that’s… more than a bit worrisome. 

“Hmm…” Geralt rises--the bastard has the nerve to be parading about in his smallclothes without a care, entirely unaffected by the bitterly cold winter weather--and makes his way over to the saddlebag to retrieve… is that what he thinks it is? It  _ is _ . “Put this on. It’ll keep your torso warm, at least.”

Dark splotches of color, which have absolutely  _ nothing _ to do with the weather, stain the bard’s cheeks. “B-But that… that’s  _ yours _ .” Is Geralt truly offering to let the bard  _ wear his clothing _ ? Because that… that…

Geralt shrugs, “It’s true that you’re quite a bit…  _ slimmer _ than I am, but it’s lined with fleece, so it should only be noticeably loose in the shoulders.” Jaskier blinks--could the other truly be that oblivious as to what he’s offering right now? “Unless you’d rather freeze to death, of course. It’s… inadvisable, but I suppose that’s your prerogative.”

“Aww, are you  _ worried _ about me?” Jaskier manages to work his stiff lips into a small smile, though it causes his entire face to  _ ache _ . Geralt rolls his eyes and drops the fleece tunic onto Jaskier’s lap.

“Don’t go putting words into my mouth, now.” He starts to walk away, only to stop when Jaskier makes a small, almost imperceptible keen. He turns to see that Jaskier has made no move to begin dressing himself. “What? If you don’t want the tunic, I’m not going to force you to wear it--,”

“N-No, it’s…” Jaskier tries to search for words as the bitter cold wind continues to lap at his cheeks, “C-Could you help me? I’m…” he bites his bottom lip, unsure of how to convey to the other how  _ heavy _ his limbs feel, how desperately he craves the warmth of the tunic, how wary he is of the bitter cold that exists outside the blankets…

Geralt sits down beside him, delicious  _ heat _ radiating off of his frame, and slowly begins peeling back the various layers of cloth that separate him from Jaskier. Jaskier is shuddering, and he winces when the bitter cold kisses his aching limbs. The Witcher stills, studying him for a moment, before he curls his hands around the smaller man’s waist and  _ picks him up _ like a child would their favorite doll. He settles the bard on his lap, and the blush staining Jaskier’s cheeks grows dark as blood as it begins mapping a course down his neck and over his chest. Once he has the bard situated comfortably, he takes the younger’s hands between his own and begins to rub them slowly, working heat back into the blue-tinged skin. 

It hurts, just a little bit. But Geralt is careful, and he takes his time, treating Jaskier like he’s something valuable and precious and… Once his hands feel a bit better, he moves onto his wrists, then his arms, until finally, he begins taking off Jaskier’s undershirt. The bard freezes, wanting to remind the Witcher that, if they’re trying to  _ warm him up _ , taking his clothes  _ off _ probably isn’t the best course of action. But… in the time it takes him to doubt Geralt’s logic, the Witcher has removed his undershirt, slipped the tunic over his head, and settled the material over the flat planes of Jaskier’s chest, the subtle curve of his hips, and his quaking thighs. And that… that was  _ warm _ . He wonders briefly why Geralt himself isn’t wearing it, but with how  _ hot _ he is in just his smallclothes, he’d probably die of heatstroke.

The tunic had actually been a gift--there was no way that Geralt would purchase something so outrageously extravagant for himself. A seamstress had been particularly thankful to Geralt for saving her only child from a werewolf, and had presented him with the lovely tunic--in addition to a purse overflowing with coin--for his efforts. Geralt had accepted it, and took excellent care not to ruin it, but he’d never actually  _ worn _ it. Before tonight, Jaskier had assumed it was because it didn’t fit properly (it’s not like the woman had his exact measurements or anything, and Geralt is hardly a standard size, besides), but he’d been reluctant to shun her rare display of kindness. And while he’d never actually  _ worn _ the tunic, his scent clings to the fabric and fills Jaskier with an odd sense of  _ peace _ .

“You’re pulling a face,” the Witcher rumbles directly into his ear, and he jumps so badly he nearly launches himself off of the other man’s lap. Geralt studies him curiously as he fidgets, tugging at the hem of the tunic and looking anywhere but at the other man’s face. “Is the idea of wearing my clothing truly so upsetting to you?”

“No!” Jaskier answers, just a little too quickly. “It’s just that it… well… it smells like you, alright?” Geralt raises one silver-white brow, and he elaborates, “A-And that’s not… what I-I’m trying to say is… I  _ like _ it, alright?”

“Mmm… if that is the face you make when you’re pleased, I’d hate to see the one that you pull when you’re angry.” Another shiver wracks Jaskier’s body, though this one is decidedly less violent than the last. “Come here,” the Witcher says, holding out his hand. After a second, Jaskier takes it, clambering back into Geralt’s lap. 

“G-Geralt, I… You were busy, weren’t you?” He looks lost, and more than a bit helpless, as Geralt pulls him in to rest upon his chest and drapes one of the heaviest furs they own across his shoulders.

“I was.” He concedes, offering nothing else in the way of explanation. Jaskier purses his lips, his mouth contorting into what could only be described as a  _ pout _ . “But I can…  _ not _ be busy for a few hours.”

“W-What? No, you… You shouldn’t have to worry about me. You have more important things to--,”

Geralt’s eyes narrow in a sorry attempt at a glare. He seems… not so much  _ annoyed _ as he is confused. “I’m not just going to let you freeze. Should you somehow manage to survive, I’ll never hear the end of your bitching.”

The bard splutters, smacking Geralt’s chest (though… to be fair… it probably hurt him a lot more than it did Geralt), “I… I’ll have you know that I absolutely  _ do not _ bitch.”

“Hmm…” Geralt is silent for a long moment, before he props himself up against the nearest tree trunk and drags Jaskier’s head down to rest in the crook of his neck, “Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

Okay… Jaskier will be the first to admit that this… this is  _ very nice _ . And he is  _ definitely _ not complaining, because outright displays of affection from the Witcher are few and far between (no matter what he tries to masquerade them as, Jaskier isn’t blind… he recognizes that the other is showing him an obscene amount of trust and affection by letting him rest on his naked chest). But, while he’s seen the Witcher sleep in a variety of extremely uncomfortable positions, including one particularly terrifying occasion where he found that Geralt had managed to fall asleep with his  _ eyes open _ , napping with knobby, moss-ridden tree bark cutting into one’s back  _ couldn’t _ be comfortable.

And so he does the first thing that comes to mind. Loathe as he is to extract himself from the warmth of Geralt’s arms, if the other isn’t about to take his own comfort into consideration, than somebody ought. He makes quick work of grabbing another of their furs, curling his fingers in the chain of Geralt’s necklace and tugging ever so slightly. Molten amber eyes flicker in amusement as he leans forward, allowing the bard to slip the fur behind his back and over his shoulders. While he doesn’t actually  _ need _ it to keep warm, it’s rather cute that the bard is so worried over his comfort… and if it keeps him from fidgeting and complaining for the balance of the night, he’ll let it slide.

“...Geralt?” He tucks his head underneath Geralt’s chin, and swears he can  _ hear _ the way the other rolls his eyes. Geralt’s hands are rubbing lazy circles on the small strip of his thigh that’s peaking out from beneath the tunic, and gods, he really  _ could _ just fall asleep right there and then.

“...Jaskier, go the fuck to sleep.” Those massive hands don’t stop moving as Geralt lets out a long-suffering sigh, praying to  _ any _ god still willing to listen that Jaskier would  _ settle down _ and  _ get some godsdamned rest _ .

“I just… I…” he curls up a little bit tighter in Geralt’s arms, “Gods, even my  _ tongue _ is frozen.” Geralt is fairly certain that that should be a sign for him to  _ shut up and sleep _ , but he continues on anyhow, “Just… t-thank you for not letting me freeze, and for loaning me your tunic, and--,”

Geralt idly runs his fingers through Jaskier’s short, chestnut brown locks, “Hmm.”

He sighs, “I love you.” And then the last dregs of energy seem to leave him as he succumbs to sleep, curled up against Geralt’s chest. The Witcher remains does not respond immediately, waiting a few moments in beautiful silence as he strokes the brunette’s head and revels in the weight of his body on top of his own.

And then, at long last, he whispers back, “I love you, too.”


End file.
